


On Your Knees

by Lady_Therion



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/M, Nessian - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-29 21:10:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14481249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Therion/pseuds/Lady_Therion
Summary: In which Nesta truly devastates the Commander.





	On Your Knees

Nesta was not well-versed in the art of war.

Though she knew more than anyone that there were two kinds of armor: one that was visible to the eye and one that was not. She often found the latter to be more effective. Steel and leather may guard against wounds. But pride, will, and fortitude could guard against worse. Her heart wore a shield that was all but impenetrable. Her mind was a weapon as razor-sharp as any sword.

But the armor she secretly favored most of all was the one she wore beneath her gown.

This particular armor came in all kinds of material and varying shades of obscenity. It was Feyre, in fact, who introduced her to the shop that was the source of all her scandalous undergarments. At first, Nesta had been more than doubtful that these sheer scraps of silk could embolden her. Could wearing such things truly make her feel less frightened, less vulnerable, less contemptuous?

Yes, apparently.

The collection she amassed since that first awkward shop visit was both costly and extravagant. It was one of the few indulgences she allowed herself since becoming Emissary. She had enough to suit her every mood and whim. Lately, she had been inclined towards an intricate lace that could only be made by the Royal Weavers Guild of the Dawn Court. It was the kind of lace that came in one color: a bloodsoaked and passionate red.

A red that matched the Siphons of a particular Illyrian Commander.

She knew exactly why she was drawn towards that color. She simply did not have the courage to voice it. They had been so tentative around each other since the war. The air between her and Cassian was fraught with a strange distance and an inexplicable tension. There was a yearning there, a longing they both recognized. Yet they could not, or would not, acknowledge it. To face it head on while they were both still recovering was...overwhelming. Insurmountable, even.

So they carried on as they always did. Their barbs and banter falling back into place as though Nesta had never lain her body over his in the battlefield. As though Cassian had never promised her to give her time should they meet again in the next world. Time, it seemed, had rewound itself to the point when they were barely allies and not...

Not...whatever they actually meant to each other.

It was pathetic, Nesta realized. That she needed to wear her silly “armor” at all seemed like an admission of weakness. But...wasn’t that what armor was for? To protect her weaknesses? To compensate for her shortcomings? The tempest of her uncertainty went on and on. All Nesta knew was that she was in the eye of her own hurricane—unable to see anything beyond the violent and furious gale.

* * *

She did not remember exactly how it happened. Only that it did.

They had both been at the House of Wind. Nesta, unable to sleep, had wandered over to the library—only to pass the training yard through one of the open-air corridors. Of course, Cassian had chosen that exact moment to finish his morning exercises.

And of course, she stopped to observe him.

He truly was a magnificent creature. No matter that he constantly infuriated her. Whether he held a sword, or shield, or spear—everything was an extension of his body. She had been mesmerized by his movements since the day he killed that Hybern Commander. The males in his camp said he had fought like a god. The females said he looked like one.

They were not exaggerating much.

Even now, she could not help gazing at his hard and battle-scarred muscles as they gleamed and rippled in the early morning sun. Lines of sweat ran down the tattoos of his bare chest and abdomen. His pants were riding so low that she could see the the defined cut of his obliques. The slightest blush graced her cheeks as her eyes followed the trail of sparse hair that obviously led to...

“Enjoying the show?” said Cassian, grinning at her in that vexing way.

She drew herself up, feeling her walls close around her. Not waiting for an answer, he drifted over to a nearby table where he upturned a bucket of cold water over himself. She swallowed like some naive schoolgirl as he shook out the ends of his night-dark hair and flared his bat-like wings to their full span.

He was showing off and it only worsened her irritation. Must he always use his body, his experience, his _sensuality_ to intimidate her? To cow her? To remind her that she was still a young girl, despite the immortality that had been thrust upon her? The furrow in her brow deepened as he sent another smirk in her direction. Then he tied up his hair in that haphazard knot that always intruded upon her thoughts like the most unwelcome distraction.

“Well?” he said, arms crossed, feet braced apart. “Aren’t you going to say hello?”

It would have been easy to ignore him then. To continue on her way. To forget this moment, as she had the others. But there was something in his eyes that rooted her to the spot. A fevered intensity she had not seen since they attended the High Lords’ meeting. An intensity that seemed to say, “ _Don’t go_.”

So she didn’t.

Perhaps it was the intricate red-laced “armor” she wore beneath her robe that gave her courage. Or something like it. Regardless of what it was, it allowed her to walk over to him. To stand before him like a worthy opponent, a challenger.

It was the night at her father’s house all over again.

He towered over her, wings and all. But she did not retreat. Nor did she move forward. His heat and his scent—that damnable scent—invaded her wits, her reason. She could feel herself crumble, but she refused to let it show on her face.

It didn’t matter. He seemed to sense it anyway.

“Hello, Cassian.”

Sometimes, the gods grant small mercies. The fact that he could say nothing in return was one of them. She did not know if she could bear any of his thorned taunts or half-cruel jests. Even now, she was struggling against the instinct to _hurt._ To draw first blood before she herself was injured. The fray was their pattern—a wicked, but familiar comfort. But that comfort was cold...and so very exhausting.

She would not fight him today. The realization seemed to throw him off balance. He looked away from her, cleared his throat. He was nervous...This centuries-old warrior was nervous around _her_.

“Are you well?” He asked.

It didn’t seem to be a pleasantry. He genuinely wanted to know. So she decided to give him the truth—as stark and ugly as it was.

“No I’m not,” she said. “And neither are you.”

There it was. The words had been said and they could not escape them. The moment had stolen her breath away, had shocked him into stillness. Gone was his arrogance, his bravado. In its place was an expression of grief...anguish. Did she imagine her heartbeat stuttering? Is this how they would begin to heal? Would the remedy hurt worse than the affliction? Her emotions were rising like an angry tide and it was all she could do to not run away and leave him there.

But she would not run away. She _could_ not run away. Not then, and not now.

“You’d been...hiding,” he began. “I didn’t...I didn’t know how to…”

She had never seen him so clumsy. So at a loss. She could have reveled in it, called it a victory. But she did not feel victorious. Only broken. And it was in that moment she realized her strong and stubborn commander was broken too.

 _Her_ commander.

“I wanted to talk to you,” he said, his words sounding like a plea.

She shrugged. “I don’t make it easy.”

A faint laugh. “Was that a joke?”

She lifted the corner of her mouth. It was the most infinitesimal smile on the planet. But Cassian, ever perceptive, saw it for what it was. It alighted something within him. But the brief flash of joy was quickly followed by sorrow. This time he looked away from her and this time Nesta understood why. He was ashamed. Deeply and utterly _ashamed_.

An eternity stretched between them. His eyes shuttered.

“I wish I knew how to stop failing you,” he whispered, finally.

A sharp pang burst through her chest, as though she been struck with an arrow. Her mind worked rapidly to make sense of it all. The world around her seemed to tilt off its axis, reshaping and rearranging the way she saw things. The way she saw him.

Another eternity passed.

“Please say something,” he said.

She flinched. Her hand fluttering over the side of her neck.

“I….” She stopped, gathering herself. “I wish I knew how to stop failing you too.”

A hitch in his breath.

“Nesta...”

She couldn’t bear to look at him either. The confession seemed to draw out her very soul. But there it was. Her faults and defects on full display. She hated it, but let it pass through her. The revelation loosened something that had been festering inside her for months. Sometimes, the best way to get rid of an infection was to excise it—to cut it out.

Still, the pain was overwhelming.

But it was his nearness in the end that saved her, that anchored her to the present. He lifted her chin, swiped a calloused thumb over the fullness of her lips, the sharpness of her jaw. His eyes were lined with silver. She imagined hers were as well.

Then she kissed him. Hot, searing, and desperate. As though she was drowning and only he could save her from the storm.

He groaned into her mouth like he was dying. Maybe he was. Maybe they both were. Maybe they would both be made anew. Reforged from the shattered pieces of themselves. There hands and tongues and teeth were a blur of pure, primal, _physical_ sensation. Something had kindled, then ignited. And now here they were, embraced by an inferno of their own making.

“Not here,” he said, gasping as they broke apart. “I don’t...not like this. You deserve—”

She halted his words with another kiss, tracing the scar over the corner of his lips. “We don’t…,” she began. “We don’t have to. Not yet. But Cassian, I want...I _want_ …”

He knew what she wanted. Mother damn him, he _knew_.

Somehow, they made their way towards her bedroom. Her legs wrapped around his waist as he kissed and sucked and nipped at the skin of her neck. Surely, he would leave a mark. Surely, he would leave a bruise. But rather than apall her, it thrilled her. His marks would be proof that all of this had happened.

She could feel him as he set her down on the edge of the bed, as gently as if she was made of glass. His hard length drove into her and her toes curled at being the reason for his frenzied arousal. The kisses did not stop. There was no finesse, no tenderness. Just an aching need for touch, for skin. For _heat_.

Silently, he sought her permission before untying her robe. She nodded, shakily. And she realized that she must look like one of those wanton nymphs in the paintings at the townhouse. Her lips swollen from kisses, her hair tousled and unbound. Her chest rising and falling rapidly from the rush of it all. They had never been good with words. But _this_ was a language they both understood. Here, in her bed, there were no misunderstandings.

“What is this?” He asked, when her robe fell open.

His eyes swept over the color, the pattern, the garters. How every inch of her red-laced armor accentuated every single curve and dip. Then suddenly, she felt...shy. He looked at her like he was looking at a _goddess_. Awestruck and agape.

“This is...my armor,” she said.

“Your armor?”

She nodded. “It is not only _you_ who can devastate with looks alone.”

The laugh he gave was booming, hearty. It warmed her. She wished to hear it again. To be the cause of it. To always be the cause of such happiness...instead of pain.

His deft fingers ran over the backs of her knees, up her thighs. A question seemed to bloom between them.

“Sweetheart, have you ever…?”

“No.”

“Then maybe—”

“You told me once that you would teach me more interesting ways to bring a man to his knees.” She laced her fingers with his, her heart racing. “I’d like to have that lesson now. You’ll find that I’m a quick study.” He swallowed, weighing her words, her intentions. “Cassian, _please_.”

The words seemed to undo him. Something primal slid into place. Blowing out his pupils as he coaxed her to lie back as he eased himself between her legs—kneeling before her as he made slow, agonized kisses on the flesh of her spread thighs.

“You’re so beautiful…,” he whispered against her skin, sending a shiver of desire through her. She did not know how her undergarments would fair after this. His ministrations had her _soaked_. Embarrassingly, so. But Cassian did not seem to mind as he nosed into her. Questing, seeking, greeting her lightly with his wicked tongue. Letting her know he was there.

Then he used his teeth, those devilishly sharp canines, to peel the red lace off of her skin. Until her wet sex was all his for the taking.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured. Then kissed her _there_. Softly. Sweetly. A swirl of his tongue. She bowed her back at the newness of it all. The shock. It made him growl, made him tighten his hold, made him lift her hips higher. He licked a long stripe, using his stubble to his advantage. Then began a long and lovely onslaught that wrecked her from the inside out.

She had never come so hard. She had _never, ever_ felt so reckless. So wonderful. So cherished. And this was merely a taste of his devotion. He savored her like fine wine. Made love to her gently with his mouth and fucked her with his fingers. He mixed softness with roughness; keeping her body guessing. Then panted and gasped along with her as she writhed and fisted his hair. Over and over and over again, he brought her over the edge of that blissful precipice. Asking nothing in return. Wanting only to please her.

The generosity was stunning. But then she realized, when he made a sharp cry, that her pleasure was his as well. He had come from only watching her come. But he didn’t seem at all mortified. Instead, he looked wrung out; relieved. She reached for him then, wanting to clutch him close. He climbed over her, mindful of his weight and wings as he joined her in bed. Clinging to her from behind.

“That was…” he began.

She hushed him, not wanting to break the peace of this moment. Smash the fragility. There would be time later to talk. To know one another more intimately. To make more mistakes...to heal the wounds they inflicted on each other.

When he kissed her again, she could taste herself on him. But the desire was both theirs.

“Armored or not, I will have you Nesta Archeron,” he said, eyes shining.

She traced his brow. “And I will you have you, Commander. On your knees, every time.”


End file.
